


Live Like Magic

by achoo_gesundheit



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 17:06:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achoo_gesundheit/pseuds/achoo_gesundheit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin has always loved painting. He loves the muddy mix of colors on his palette, the smooth stroke of a new brush across a canvas, the lingering scent of oils on his skin. He loves the way he can capture a moment in the pigments, trapping it there, preserving it, like magic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Merlin has always loved painting. He loves the muddy mix of colors on his palette, the smooth stroke of a new brush across a canvas, the lingering scent of oils on his skin. He loves the way he can capture a moment in the pigments, trapping it there, preserving it, like magic.

Merlin has always loved men. He loves the hard lines of muscle, the sharp contours of hips and shoulders, the smooth skin pulled taut over a masculine frame. He loves the potential for beauty that rests there, waiting for the right moment, the right light to illuminate it, like magic.

*~*~*

Arthur has always hated painters. He hates the splattered cargo pants, the dark eyes and ever-present stubble, the constant, stagnant smell of turpentine. He hates the way they study him, like he’s some sort of specimen in a Petri dish. And he hates the stares, the ones that sweep over his exposed body, mapping out his every contour to be documented forever on an over-sized canvas.

But he was broke and he was hungry and was willing to try anything that paid over minimum wage, even if it did involve painters.

 

*~*~*  
OCTOBER 10, 2010

Richmond, Virginia, a city of some 200,000 people, was enough miles below the Mason-Dixon line to be considered “the South.” It was as far-flung from New York City or Los Angeles as you could get, old houses and historic landmarks running into office buildings and bus terminals. Richmond was an isolated bubble of democratic thinking, surrounded by conservative, suburban soccer moms and Civil War relics still fighting a perceived war of Northern Aggression.

On first glance, one might see the droves of homeless littering the city, the steepled church on every corner, or the elaborate monuments celebrating close-minded military generals. Upon further inspection however, one might find the hidden treasures of the city. Cary Street, with its shops and restaurants celebrating the diversity of such a metropolis. The Byrd Theater, where you can sit in a squeaky chair amidst elegant chandeliers and watch a two-dollar movie. And the not-so-glamorous galleries, where struggling artists can display their wares to a community of interested and good-hearted folk.

In the middle of all this was Virginia Commonwealth University. Like the city itself, on first glance it was nothing special. It was all tall buildings and urban facades that masked an only slightly more exciting interior. But it was one of the top art schools in the country, and so Merlin was there, painting, and loving every minute of it. 

The day dawned cloudy and damp, and Merlin hopped puddles haphazardly as he made his way towards the studio. His rucksack was full of brushes and paints and charcoal, waiting to be pulled out and put to work. In his arms was his absurdly large sketchpad, one he was quite helplessly trying to protect from the slight drizzle. But despite the general gloom of the day, Merlin was feeling good. They had a new model today, which would make a lovely alternative to Wallace, the overweight, middle-aged man who’d been posing as of late, one he’d taken to referring to as “Walrus” in his head.

Merlin made it across the heavy traffic of Broad Street without trouble, turning a quick left to walk towards Bowe Street, whistling a little tune to himself and imagining the sort of model he’d like to see this week. A man certainly. Someone young, maybe closer to his own age? Someone less portly, more defined, a model Merlin could really study. Images floated through his mind of anatomy book figures, with clearly delineated musculature and divine proportions, Merlin’s rampant imagination filling in the rest. Shaggy hair, smoldering eyes, high cheek-bones, strong shoulders, big hands-

Suddenly and without warning, Merlin’s fantasy was interrupted when he found himself tripping over a parked bicycle and flying headlong into an unsuspecting passerby, sketchpad soaring in a wild arc towards the nearest puddle. Merlin felt something twist in his gut (which he later realized was probably the handlebars of the bicycle) and lunged for his sketchpad, only to see it being caught deftly in the hands of a young (bloody gorgeous) man who happened to be in the right place at the right time.

Merlin stared. A veritable Adonis stood before him. The man appeared to Merlin like a hazy vision, a golden god stepping through the fogs of reality to bestow beauty upon the unsuspecting patrons of this world. It had happened the same way in so many of Merlin’s dreams, although never in front of a Sprint store, and usually not with a bicycle sticking into his spleen. He wasn’t complaining though.

Merlin was shaken out of this revelry when he heard a muffled oomf from below him and realized he was still atop the poor man who he’d barreled into.

“Oh!” Merlin said, struggling to extricate his lower body from the bicycle and allow the man to stand up. “I’m so sorry! Completely my fault! Wasn’t thinking- er, well I was, but not about walking, about something else, but you don’t want to hear about that and I’m just making a mess of this aren’t I. Do you need a han…”

Merlin trailed off as the man finally did make it back to his feet and he came face-to-face with Wallace, who was looking very put out.

“Oh Walru- Wallace. Wallace. Good to see you, Wallace. Sorry for the, you know,” Merlin made a vague gesture with his hands that encompassed the bike and the sidewalk and Wallace’s considerable paunch, “that.”

Wallace just harrumphed and began his slow waddle back down the street, muttering something about “damn painters” and “head in the clouds” as he went.

Letting out a breath, Merlin turned back towards Adonis, who was now leaning nonchalantly against the doorway of the Sprint store, Merlin’s sketchpad dangling from one hand, a cigarette from the other.

“Thanks for that.” Merlin nodded towards the book. “Nice reflexes.”

He raised an eyebrow at Merlin. “Reflexes?” His lips quirked into a sly little smile before he moved to pass over the sketchpad. “Maybe something you should work on.”

It took a minute for Merlin to notice Adonis’s outstretched hand as he was currently fixating on those quirked lips and the perfectly schooled British accent that was currently escaping them. It was only when the man’s eyebrow went up again that Merlin’s eyes flicked down to the proffered sketchbook, and he quickly snatched it back up and into his arms.

“Right. Thanks. Good of you. Appreciate it.” Merlin managed to stammer out, becoming increasingly aware of his own accent, now seeming less refined than ever. Merlin chanced a glance at his watch, and realized with a start he was incredibly close to being late for class. “Erm, right. Gotta go, I have class and er, studio, and yeah. So uh, thanks again, mate.” And with that he turned and walked as swiftly as possible towards the studio, keeping an eye peeled for bicycles and pointedly not looking back.

*~*~*

Arthur watched him go with part amusement and part annoyance. Bloody painters, always up in the sky when they should be more concerned with where they’re sticking their feet. He took one last drag on his cigarette before letting it drop to the pavement and snuffing it out with the toe of his trainer. He made his way down the sidewalk, following in the wake of the ungainly painter. Arthur wasn’t that surprised at the man’s clumsiness, what with him seeming to be mostly limbs. It was a miracle in itself that he hadn’t bowled over the entire pedestrian population.

Arthur yanked open the door to the studio building and started up the stairs with a sigh. Just another day of work, he reminded himself, nothing more than a job. He loitered outside the room for another few moments, hesitating as he always did. He had to psych himself up for this, two hours of sitting naked in a room full of clothed people staring at him. If my father only knew… He shook that thought out of his head. Not important. This was about staying alive, about having enough money to pay his rent and next week’s grocery bills. It was definitely not, in any way, about his father.

Arthur grit his teeth, shook his head one last time, “if my father…” still rattling around inside, and pushed open the door.

*~*~*

When Merlin arrived at class, everyone else was already there and set up, easels primed and charcoal out for the first round of sketches. He dumped his stuff next to Gwen, who was looking at him with the bemused expression she reserved for such occasions.

“Rough morning?” Gwen asked, twirling a stick of charcoal between her fingers.

“Something like that,” Merlin replied, placing his very damp sketchpad on the easel and pulling out his own stubby charcoal pencils. “I’ll tell you later.” He fiddled with his easel until it sat almost level, and flipped to the next clean page of paper, flipping quickly over the numerous Walrus sketches looming in earlier pages.

It was only moments before the door slid open again, and Merlin nearly fell off his stool when the rain-soaked Adonis walked into the room, shaking his head like a dog and scattering little droplets of water across the linoleum. Merlin’s professor scurried over to him, pointing towards the changing area used by the models, and then towards the raised platform in the middle of the room.

No. Merlin thought frantically. No, no, no. This is not happening to me. 

Gwen shot him a look, which he ignored in favor of not watching their new model (their new model!) walk towards the changing area. He also definitely did not watch as various articles of clothing started appearing thrown over the screen separating the model’s corner from the rest of the room. And he most certainly did not watch as the man stepped out from behind the screen wearing nothing but his skin, his lovely, lovely skin, Merlin thought to himself.

Merlin was distantly aware of his teacher introducing the god as Arthur, who would be serving as their model for the next few weeks as they worked on a bigger painting project. Arthur (Really? His name is Arthur?) stepped onto the dais and sat down in the chair there, moving this way and that as the professor instructed.

“We’ll start with a series of quick gestures, two minutes each.”

Merlin picked up his charcoal, keeping his eyes firmly locked on the paper in front of him until he heard the tell-tale click of the timer starting. Letting out a breath, he darted a quick look to Arthur, who was sitting in the middle of the room looking completely at ease with the fact that seven people all had their eyes avidly fixed on his nude body. Merlin forced himself to see Arthur in lines and contours instead of broad shoulders and long arms, forms and shapes instead of hard muscles and sharp hips. The timer went off, the pose changed, and Merlin continued, capturing every movement, every curve of this new body, detaching it from ironic names and awkward encounters. He was in his element now, and when the timer beeped to signal the next pose, Merlin hardly blinked before his hand flew to the next empty corner of his paper, charcoal poised and ready.

They spent another fifteen minutes or so on quick gesture sketches before moving on to a longer pose, one that would last an hour at least. This was the time Merlin loved the most, when he had to chance to flesh out this body, add details, give it a face, an identity beyond that of the lines and contours, forms and shapes. Arthur stood up and swiveled the chair around so that he could sit on it backwards, before tilting his head to the side and back giving Merlin an almost perfect profile view of his face. He perched one elbow on the backrest of the chair, using his hand to hold up his chin, and let his other arm fall gracefully over the backrest, fingers dangling near his knees.

Merlin had traded his sketchpad for a red-painted canvas, brought out his battered palette and brushes, paints lying ready for him. He used charcoal to lay the foundations of the pose: spine, shoulders, and hips, marking where limbs fell and mapping out proportions with careful precision. Then he added form, showing where round thighs met hips and sculpted arms met shoulders. He drew in the chair, its sharp lines in high contrast to the curving figure that encircled it. He worked his way up to the face, sketching in the heavy eyes, the Roman nose, the quirking lips. Satisfied with the likeness, Merlin set aside his charcoal in favor of his oils, loading up his brush with a deep umber. He started to paint in shadows, the ones beneath the chin and along the tendons in the neck, down through arms and along the back, curving around to legs and down to the floor. Merlin’s brush darted back to his palette to pick up some blue, before moving back to his canvas to add depth to the darks. He continued in this manner for what felt like ages, his hand flying between palette and canvas, swiping up bits of seemingly random colors and adding them to the fray as slowly, a second image of Arthur began to appear in front of him.

It was over too soon. The shrill alarm on the classroom timer seemed a million miles away to Merlin, but he was jerked back to earth when Arthur, sensing his job was done, stood up and walked back to his corner of the room, ensconcing himself once again behind the screen. Left without a model, Merlin reluctantly sat back from his work, dumping his paintbrush into the jar of turpentine on his left. He peeked around his own canvas to look at Gwen’s drawing, and was duly impressed, as always.

“I swear, it’s like you’re channeling the Old Masters over there, Gwen.”

Gwen looked up from where she was stacking away her charcoal to stick her tongue out at Merlin, before sneaking a glance at his painting. She snorted. “Look who’s talking, Van Gogh.”

Merlin stuck his own tongue out. “You’re hilarious.”

*~*~*

Arthur shivered a little as he ducked back behind the screen; the room was chilly when he wasn’t sitting under a spotlight. Oh, and he was naked. Yeah, that might have something to do with it. Reaching up, he yanked his pants down from over the screen, hopping from foot to foot as he pulled them back on. He grabbed his t-shirt next, then shrugged into his hoodie, pulling on socks, and finally lacing up his trainers. He patted his pockets, checking for the essentials: keys, phone, cigarettes, lighter, before stepping out from behind the screen. He was met with the general end-of-session mayhem that involved easels being broken down, canvases and sketchpads being stored away, and the various tools of the trade all getting shoved into their respective owner’s bags. Arthur tried not to look at all the images of himself floating around the room, still not particularly comfortable with that aspect of the job. He knew all these drawings and paintings would be pulled out again later to be tweaked, studied, perfected. The thought was mildly disconcerting.

On the far side of the room, Arthur saw the clumsy painter from that morning chatting amiably with another artist, a lovely girl with dark skin and flyaway hair pulled back into a loose ponytail at her neck. She was classically pretty, unlike her friend, who looked like he’d been thrown together on one of creation’s off days. Arthur knew he was tall and gangly, his limbs now folded awkwardly to fit into the small space between his stool and his easel. He was, in Arthur’s mind, an almost stereotypical image of a disheveled painter. He was wearing olive cargo paints and a red long sleeve shirt, both featuring a spectrum of various smudges. His jaw was lined with stubble, and he had dark, heavy eyes, making him look either permanently hungover or, as was probably closer to the truth, like an overworked art student. The only things that didn’t conform to Arthur’s canonic idea of painterly qualities were the enormous and slightly ridiculous ears that stuck out from below his five-dollar haircut, making him look like some sort of insane elephant hybrid. He watched as the girl elbowed her friend, nodding her head vaguely in Arthur’s direction, and Arthur realized he was staring at them. And now they were staring at him, and Arthur was getting a clear view of the elephant’s face.

It had changed.

It was something about the eyes. Arthur could have sworn they were blue, had looked at them out in the rain and been shocked by their clarity. But now, they looked almost gold, shining out from below the man’s fringe. Arthur would have been faintly terrified if not for the shit-eating grin plastered across the lower half of the man’s face, and the whole situation lost any intensity it may have had when the painter raised his hand in an exaggerated, goofy sort of wave.

Arthur’s eyebrow shot up without him even thinking about it, which only seemed to make Dumbo smile even wider. Arthur glanced around for some excuse or method of escape, but couldn’t find anything that wouldn’t make him look either extremely rude or extremely terrified. He sighed before steeling his face into a practiced façade of polite disinterest and making his way over to the pair, the elephant still grinning, his companion smiling kindly next to him.

“Did you finish clearing the sidewalk of bicycles, then?” Arthur asked.

“Yup!” The man finally put his hand down. “All clean.”

Arthur took in the smudged pants, the faded t-shirt, and the smear of a particularly unfortunate brown across the painter’s face. “Too bad we can’t say the same for you.”

Dumbo’s smile slipped a little.

The girl shot Arthur an appraising look before sticking out her hand. “I’m Gwen,” she said.

Arthur looked down at her hand, which was covered in charcoal dust, and nodded, keeping his hands firmly at his sides. “Pleasure.”

Arthur was aware he was being impolite, and several images of appalled tutors fluttered through his head, but there was just something about these two that threw him off-kilter. He thought it might be those eyes. They couldn’t be natural. Maybe he was diseased, mentally unstable. The girl seemed nice enough, but Arthur wasn’t going to take any chances. After another moment of her hand hanging uselessly in mid-air, the girl, Gwen, Arthur’s brain now supplied, pulled it back, letting it rest on her bag in what Arthur suspected was preparation for a grab and go. She shared a look with Dumbo, communicating something silently before they both turned back to Arthur.

“You can call me Merlin,” he said, his eyes flashing gold momentarily when they met Arthur’s, and an involuntary shiver ran down his Arthur’s spine. “And we have to go.” He grinned again, waggling his paint-covered fingers. “Gotta get cleaned up.”

They left Arthur standing amidst the empty easels, still seeing gold.

You can call me Merlin.

*~*~*

“So Arthur…”

“Is a grade-A prat, yes,” Merlin said, expertly balancing his grande chai tea latte and muffin atop his sketchpad before dumping it all in a graceful heap on a table.

“But a sexy prat,” Gwen added, plopping down across from Merlin with her own steaming drink.

Merlin hummed in agreement around his cup, a small smile playing on his lips. “That he is.”

They sipped their drinks in comfortable silence for a few moments before Gwen spoke up again.

“How’s Will?

Merlin’s smile slipped a little. “Fine,” he said, picking up Gwen’s discarded coffee stirrer and starting to fiddle with it. “The same, I think.”

“Is he still living in London?”

Merlin scratched out a doodle into the faded coffee stains on the table. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “still in London.”

“Is he dating anybody?”

Merlin snorted. “Why, are you in the market?”

“No!” Gwen sighed. “Just trying to make conversation, Merlin.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” He twiddled the coffee stirrer between his fingers like a baton. “He’s got a boyfriend, I think.”

“That’s nice.” Gwen cocked her head at Merlin. “That is nice, right?”

The coffee stirrer snapped between Merlin’s fingers with a loud crack. “Yes Gwen, it’s fucking fantastic that my ex-boyfriend is shagging some punk musician in my flat, in my bed, while I’m stuck here in a five floor walk-up bemoaning my miserable existence.” Merlin carded his hands through his hair, smearing a line of red paint across the left side of his head. “Thanks for asking.”

“There’s no need to get testy, Merlin. It was just a question.”

“Well let’s just avoid those sorts of questions in the future, alright?” Merlin let his head drop onto the table, adding red paint to the coffee stains and pen scratches there. “And here I thought it was going to be a good day.”

“Not so good then?” Gwen asked. “You never did tell me what happened this morning.”

“Oh you mean me tripping over a parked bicycle and crashing head-on into Wallace the Walrus?”

Gwen’s hands flew to her mouth. “No.”

“Yes. And then having wicked fantasies about a particular man who so nobly saved my sketchbook from a horrid demise, only to find out he was to be our new model.”

“Arthur?!” Gwen was still valiantly trying to stifle her giggles. “What did he say?”

“He said I had no reflexes to speak of and basically accused me of accosting the entire pedestrian population.”

When there was no response from Gwen, Merlin lifted his head to see her in peals of laughter on the other side of the table. He let his head drop back down with a dull thud.

“Appreciate the support, Gwen,” he muttered, face half-smushed against the polished hardwood. “Ever the stalwart friend, courageous protector of my fragile sensibilities, gallant upholder of my reputation as a courteous pedestrian.”

“Oh shut it,” Gwen snapped. “It’s not my fault you’re a clumsy oaf.”

“No. I blame the Queen.”

“The Queen? Of England?”

Merlin nodded, or tried to anyway, his head still resting on the table. “More specifically Prince William.”

“How in the world could Prince William be in any way responsible for your lack of grace?”

Merlin rolled his head so that he was looking at Gwen the right way up, letting his chin rest against the edge of the table. “I used to trip whenever I saw him on the telly. Completely baffled my mum. Then when me and Will… well, it made a lot more sense to her after that.”

“So you’re saying that you’re clumsy because Prince William is attractive?”

“He was on the telly a lot.”

Gwen just stared incredulously at him. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.” She pointed a finger accusingly. “You are ridiculous.”

“Never a truer word spoken.”

Gwen whipped around in her chair. “Lance!” She said, a smiling blooming on her face.

“Gwen.” Lance said, smiling back. He glanced down at where Merlin’s head was still resting on the table. “Merlin. Looking ship shape as always.”

“Awooga.”

Lance chuckled and Merlin let his head tilt to the side a little so he could look at him. Awooga, Merlin thought again, eyes sweeping appreciatively over Lance’s classical figure, taking in the faded jeans and white button down, the dark hair that fell in neat curls over his eyes.

“Hey, you,” Gwen said, slapping a hand at Merlin’s face. “Save it for class.”

Merlin stuck his tongue out at her. Gwen stuck hers out in retaliation, so Merlin threw his empty cup at her, which landed with a clatter on the next table over, having flown straight over Gwen’s head.

“Children, fight nice,” Lance scolded, retrieving the cup from the older woman at the next table, who was glaring daggers at Merlin and Gwen. Lance waited until they were finished snickering to ask, “Are you two toddlers ready to go? I’ve got to pick up a friend.”

Gwen nodded and smiled, picking up her own cup to throw away. Lance reached down and hefted her bag over one shoulder, picking up her oversized sketchpad in his free hand. Merlin crammed the rest of his muffin in his mouth and started gathering his own things, shoving his chair back with his feet and promptly tripping forward into the table.

“Alight, Merlin?” Lance asked from somewhere near the door.

“Dofn men mu.”

“I’m sorry? I don’t actually speak muffin.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Merlin said, tottering carefully through the minefield of tables. “Shut up.”

*~*~*

Arthur loitered awkwardly outside of Chipotle, the morning’s rain having mostly dissipated, and waited for Lance’s beat up Honda Civic to pull into the lot. His phone cheerfully alerted him to another new message, the name Agravaine ominously on the home screen. He deleted it. Five more minutes passed, and he was about to send an angry text to Lance when he heard the telltale rattle of the Civic coming around the corner. Shoving his phone back into his pocket, he started over to meet him. Or rather, them, as Arthur could make out two extra figures outlined in the tinted windows of the car. When it came to a stop, Arthur caught a glimpse of Gwen sitting in the passenger seat before the rear passenger-side door popped open, and Arthur got a clear shot of elephant-man, “call me Merlin,” sitting in the back seat, smiling like a maniac. Splendid. 

“Do you ever stop smiling?” Arthur asked, sliding into the backseat.

“Do you ever stop being a prat?” Merlin countered, sliding over to make room.

“Hold on,” Lance said, pulling out of the parking lot and hooking a left on Grace St. “Do you guys know each other?”

“We had the pleasure of making Sir Arthur’s acquaintance this morning in class.” Gwen pitched in sarcastically from the front seat.

Arthur paled a bit as Merlin sniggered next to him. Lance shot him a questioning look in the rearview mirror. “You decide to pursue painting?” He asked.

“I wouldn’t call it painting, exactly.” Gwen remarked, and Merlin’s sniggering increased.

“You going to explain this Arthur?” Lance asked. “Or I am going to have to beat it out of Merlin?”

Merlin produced a sound that could have been a squeak, or another equally girly vocal reaction.

Arthur swiveled to look at him incredulously. “Did you just squeak?”

A flush was slowly creeping its way up Merlin’s face, but to his credit, he still managed to inform Lance about Arthur’s new occupation. “He’s the model,” Merlin said, getting far too much pleasure out of it.

The car jerked to a startled halt a good ten feet before the approaching stop sign.

“We haven’t actually reached the intersection, Lance.” Arthur said calmly.

Lance turned around in his seat to look at Arthur. “We need to talk.”

“Here?” Arthur said, a little desperately. The last thing he needed was a heart-to-heart conversation in a dangerously parked car with two people, two painters, he’d just met.

Lance glanced around at Merlin, looking much too curious for his own good, and Gwen, looking sharp and calculating in the front seat, before turning back to the road. “No. Perhaps not.”

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Lance pointed a finger at him. “We will talk though. Soon.”

“Yes, your highness,” Arthur replied, bowing his head in sarcastic obedience.

Merlin started sniggering again.

“It doesn’t take much to set him off, does it?” Arthur asked Lance, jerking a thumb in Merlin’s direction.

“No,” Lance agreed, ignoring Merlin’s affronted shout, “It certainly doesn’t.”

The rest of the ride went in relative quiet, with just the hum of the radio and the rattle of the beater’s engine to mix with Arthur’s internal diatribe of practiced responses to the questions that were sure to come. Yes, I’m a model now. No, my father doesn’t know. Yes, I realize I could be disowned. No, I haven’t talked to Solomon. Yes, the weather is crap. Lovely chat, let’s do it again the next time I run away to America to skive off my familial obligations. 

All in all, Arthur was looking forward to it.

They dropped Merlin and Gwen off at a used bookstore in Carytown, and Arthur could see the words Chop Suey written on the flag in the window. They thanked Lance for the ride, Gwen’s goodbye taking a little bit longer than was strictly necessary, before the doors of the Civic were slammed shut and the car lurched forward and back out into traffic. Arthur awkwardly scrambled into the front seat, putting on his seatbelt and rolling the window down, enjoying the warm breeze that was present even then, in October.

“So you ready to talk?” Lance asked, turning on Boulevard to head back to his apartment. “Or are we waiting until we get home?”

“Home,” Arthur said, perfectly willing to put off this conversation as long as possible.

Lance sighed, but continued driving in silence. Arthur mapped out the route in his head, trying to ingrain it in his memory. Left on Boulevard, left on Broad, right on Hermitage. Lance’s apartment was at the intersection of Hermitage Road and Leigh Street, in a complex called Southern Stove Lofts. It was a grand, red brick building with accompanying water tower, which Arthur had to assume was at one point used for the manufacturing of stoves. Lance hooked the car into the lot and parked in the nearest empty space. He shot a look at Arthur before pushing his door open and stepping out. Arthur rolled his eyes and kicked his own door open, slamming it shut behind him.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t abuse my car, Arthur,” Lance said over his shoulder as he walked towards the building.

“Not like I could make it any worse,” Arthur muttered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and starting after him.

Lance’s apartment was a one-bedroom, one-bathroom affair, but was fairly nice all things considered. He had a kitchen and a living room, and a semi-comfortable futon that Arthur was currently calling home. Arthur sank down into a kitchen chair and waited as Lance pulled out two mugs from the cabinet. Tea then. The British answer to everything. Arthur accepted his cup with a nod, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic and inhaling the familiar scent of earl grey. Lance sat down across from him, took a sip of tea, and waited.

“So,” Arthur said. “Merlin. Why did we drop him off at a bookstore?”

“That’s where he works.”

Arthur nodded. “And Gwen?”

“Works at the restaurant across the street,” Lance said. “And you? Where are you working now Arthur?”

Arthur stared down into his tea, not willing to meet Lance’s steady gaze. “Here and there.”

Lance sighed. “Arthur this is ridiculous. I’m not your father; I’m not going to disown you,” he said softly. “But you called me up out of the blue, and now you’re living in my flat, and I would appreciate knowing what the hell is going on here.”

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. “I ran away.”

“You’re 24 years old Arthur. You can go wherever you like.”

“No,” Arthur said, opening his eyes to meet Lance’s across the table. “No I can’t.” He took a sip of tea before continuing. “My father is… my father is not well.”

Lance was quite for a moment. “Arthur, do you mean to tell me you left your ill father in England to come over here and sleep on my futon?”

“He’s not ill!” Arthur paused. “It’s just… he has been working his entire life and it’s beginning to take a toll on him, especially after what happened in May.”

A wash of understanding passed over Lance’s face. “Morgana.”

Arthur nodded. “After she left, he just hasn’t been the same. He hardly ever leaves his room, just sits and stares and waits for her return. He hasn’t been to work in months.” He stared down into his tea. “And at the end of the year, if he is not fit to return to the House of Lords, I am…” He trailed off, the reality of his situation blooming once again in his head.

“You are expected to take his place,” Lance finished.

“And do my duty for Queen and country, yeah.”

“Arthur…” Lance stopped, apparently at a loss as to what he intended to say.

“I thought leaving would help,” Arthur said, thinking about the other man he had left back in England.

“Didn’t it?”

Arthur heard his father’s voice in his head, biting and cruel, and he saw Sol’s long arms wrapped around someone else, filling the space Arthur used to occupy. He shook his head, “No.”

Lance sighed. “ You can’t hide here forever, Arthur. Eventually you’re going to have to go back.”

Arthur said nothing, just brought his cooling tea up to his mouth for another sip.

Lance let it go, but not before bringing up an equally uncomfortable topic. “So that brings us to today,” he said, carefully studying Arthur’s face for some sign of… something, “and your new job.”

“It’s not new,” Arthur said without thinking, then grimaced. Lance’s eyes were getting wider. “I mean, I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

Now it was Lance’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “You’ve done this sort of thing before,” he repeated. Arthur sensed a question in there somewhere.

“At St. Andrews, for the art students,” Arthur said, unwilling to elaborate further.

“That’s funny,” said Lance, “I don’t recall St. Andrews offering art.”

Arthur coughed. “Well they don’t. Not officially.”

“Just unofficially.”

“Yeah.”

“And old habits die hard? Is that what I’m getting here?”

“No! God, I hate it, Lance.” Arthur said, setting his mug down to pinch the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “But I’m broke, and it’s easy, and the money’s good.”

Lance stared at him.

“What?”

“You’re broke?” Lance asked, disbelieving.

Arthur glared at him. “I’ve been cut-off.”

“Who made that decision?”

“Agravaine,” Arthur said with a snarl. “He’s been making all of my father’s decisions lately.”

Lance nodded. “So you’re modeling.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal.”

“Your father might say differently.”

“My father’s not saying much of anything right now, Lance!” Arthur shouted, slamming his palms down onto the table, making the teacups rattle. “He might as well be a vegetable for all he’s said to me in the last four months.”

Lance was looking at him with what Arthur thought was pity, and if anything, it just made the situation ten times worse.

“Don’t you dare,” Arthur said, shoving an accusing finger at Lance. “Don’t you dare pity me.”

Lance raised his hands in what Arthur recognized as a sign of appeasement. “I don’t pity you Arthur,” he said quietly. “But I don’t envy your situation.” He let his hands rest palm up on the table. “I also don’t think you can keep this up.”

“Keep what up?”

“The pretending.”

“I’m not pretending,” Arthur said, a little bit too quickly.

And there was that look again, the pitying look. Lance didn’t respond, but Arthur had had enough.

“Look mate, I appreciate you letting me stay here.” Arthur stood up and pushed his chair back, abandoning his now cold mug of tea on the table. “But I’m not sure this is going to work out.”

Lance stood up too. “Arthur, come on, don’t be like that.”

Arthur whirled around. “Like what, Lance? Like what?” He shouted, waving his hands madly and taking a few aggressive steps forward. “Like a spoiled son of a Lord, running away from responsibility?” He stopped his advance and let his hands fall to his sides. “Like a coward who can’t even look his own father in the eye because he’s afraid of what he might see?” Lance was silent, but Arthur couldn’t stop. “Like a hopeless, good-for-nothing 24 year old basket case with no career aspirations to speak of?” Arthur shook his head, before turning to grab his duffel from where he’d stashed it behind the futon. “Well you know what,” he said, decibel level returning to normal, “I’m all of those things.” He yanked the door open, turning back to look at Lance, who was standing silently in his kitchen, not appalled, not angry, just that same look of pity etched across his face. Arthur’s gaze was pure steel as he said, “I was never pretending,” and slammed the door shut behind him.

It wasn’t until Arthur reached the corner that he realized he had nowhere to go.


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin liked working at the bookstore. It was all organizing and alphabetizing, with the occasional friendly conversation as people filtered in and out of the shop. The work wasn’t hard; no real thought was required to know that Isabel Allende went before Neil Gaiman on the fiction shelf. On most days, that meant he could let his mind wander to painting: planning out his next composition, establishing deadlines for himself, choosing color palettes in his head. Today, it meant more time to think about Arthur. He wouldn’t call it an obsession exactly, it had only been a day after all, but since this morning he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. It didn’t help that he could see Arthur’s naked body in hid head with photographic clarity.

But Arthur was a prat, a rude, uppity prat who would have nothing to do with Merlin and his painterly ways if he had the choice. Which Merlin supposed he did. Besides the fact that they would be seeing a lot of each other every day in class, or rather, Merlin would be seeing a lot of him, and he would be stoically ignoring Merlin, they didn’t really have any reason to talk to each other.

Except Lance, Merlin thought, and he cringed. How was it possible for someone as kind-hearted and genial as Lance to be friends with the likes of Arthur?

He shook his head as another memory from class popped into his brain. Stop that, Merlin instructed himself. He’s not worth your time.

Merlin was organizing the new cookbooks when the text came. It was from Gwen.

Prat incoming. 

Merlin swiveled around to look out the front windows. Lo and behold, His Royal Prat, Arthur of Pratland was ambling down the street, looking lost. Lance was nowhere in sight.

You have got to be fucking kidding me, Merlin thought to himself, dropping the stack of cookbooks in his arms on the nearest table and making towards the front of the store. Arthur was loitering outside, cigarette in hand, and if Merlin didn’t know it was impossible, he would have thought Arthur resembled a kicked puppy. His manager was sitting at the counter and shooting Merlin a glare that clearly said Is this yours?

Merlin just grinned his “I’ll take care of it” grin, before pushing the door open, causing the bells above the entrance to jingle merrily.

“Looking for me?” Merlin asked as Arthur took another drag of his cigarette. To his credit, there was no spastic jump of surprise of the sort that usually characterized Merlin’s interactions. Arthur made a calm quarter-turn, abandoning his view of the street to look at Merlin.

“Yeah, actually,” he said. Want to make something of it? written clearly in his posture.

Yes, Merlin thought, but instead said, “Uh… why?”

“I need a place to stay,” Arthur said bluntly, curls of dark smoke filtering out of his mouth with every word. Not that Merlin was looking at his mouth.

“You need a place to stay,” Merlin repeated dumbly, wondering if he had entered a parallel universe somewhere between the door and Arthur.

Arthur who was now rolling his eyes, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette. “I’m pretty sure I was speaking English,” he grated out.

“Oh, aye!” Merlin said, grinning, and adopting a ridiculous and near incomprehensible Irish brogue. “I just cannae understand your posh Cambridge Boy accent!”

Arthur stiffened. “I went to St. Andrews, actually,” he said icily. “And it appears I’m wasting my time here.”

Merlin felt his grin slide off his face. I really didn’t need this today. He took a calming breath before saying, “So tell me, Sir Arthur, why would a rich St. Andrew’s boy like you need to stay with a lowly painter like me?”

There was apparently something particularly fascinating happening around the vicinity of Arthur’s trainers, as it was to them he was now directing the conversation. “I was staying with Lance, but there were… complications.”

Merlin ran that through his head. Complications. Ok. “And I was the next best option?” he asked, a little disbelieving.

Arthur took another desperate drag from his slowly dying cigarette. “You appear to be my only option,” he said quietly.

All thoughts stopped at that particular bombshell. I can’t really be considering this. This is a disaster waiting to happen. Merlin ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, head trying to make sense of this perfectly insane situation. His eyes took in Arthur, his designer jeans and expensive trainers, the smoking cigarette gripped precariously in his right hand, the duffel bag slung casually over his left shoulder. It was the face that did him in though, looking defeated, like he already knew what the answer would be.

Arthur straightened up, his left hand coming up to grip the strap on his duffel, feet taking a half-step backwards. “It’s alright. I know you have no reason to help me, especially after how I acted this morning. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

I am so going to regret this, was the thought that went through Merlin’s head as he blurted out, “Yes.”

Ah, there was the eyebrow that Merlin knew. “Excuse me?” Arthur said, sounding a little affronted.

It only took Merlin a split second to realize how that had probably sounded. “To the staying bit,” he quickly clarified. “Not to this morning bit. Although yes to that too, now that I think about it.”

Arthur only looked surprised for a minute, before Ice-Man face slammed back into play. “Thank you,” he said, and Merlin could have swore he heard a trace of sincerity buried somewhere in that sentence. “I appreciate it.”

Merlin flapped a hand through the air, waving off the gratitude. “It’s no problem. I mean, it is sort of a problem, but it’s okay. Do you like cats?”

“Cats?” Arthur asked, missing the connection. “Not particularly.”

“Ah,” Merlin scratched his head. “Well, maybe she’ll grow on you then.”

“Beg pardon?”

Merlin almost laughed at that, but found it in himself to restrain his giggles. “I have to go back in and clear some stuff up,” Merlin said before checking his watch. It was almost 6. “You hungry?”

Arthur made to shake his head no, but then reconsidered. “Starving.”

Merlin grinned. “Right then. See that restaurant across the street?” He pointed to the New York Deli, where he knew Gwen was probably sneaking glances through the big front windows as she served people their sandwiches. Arthur nodded, and Merlin continued. “Go in and ask for Gwen. She’ll get you a table. I’ll be there in ten minutes” He glanced back inside the bookstore at his manager, who was sitting at the counter watching Merlin fiercely through the glass. Merlin winced. “On second thought, better make it twenty.” Not quite knowing how to end this, Merlin waved goofily at Arthur before making a shooing motion with one hand and heading back into the store.

This day just got infinitely more interesting.

*~*~*

Arthur was exhausted. The adrenaline he’d worked up wandering around the city was starting to fade, and he felt himself relax marginally knowing that at least there was going to be a roof over his head tonight. Gwen had seated him with a wary look in one of the back corner booths to wait for Merlin. She handed him a menu and a glass of water, something like concern flashing across her face before she left to take care of her other tables. Arthur took a grateful swallow from the glass before opening his menu. Gwen returned a few minutes later and Arthur ordered what the menu referred to as a “Chelsea Dip” but what Arthur considered a roast beef sandwich. He wondered if maybe he ought to order something for Merlin, but when he looked up again Gwen was gone, having disappeared during his moment of indecision. Arthur shrugged, reclining back into the padded booth and staring out the big front windows to watch the myriad of people on the street.

Carytown, he was learning, was a motley assortment of university students, happy families, and homeless people, all somehow coexisting on this street. It was nice for what it was, with its quirky shops and restaurants, but having spent time among the quirkier bits of London, Arthur found himself less than impressed.

True to his word, seventeen minutes later (not that he’d been counting) Arthur saw Merlin leaving the bookstore to scurry across the street towards the deli, tripping on the curb and flailing wildly before righting himself. Something told Arthur this sort of thing happened a lot. Gwen greeted him at the door with a smile before sending him back to the darkened corner where Arthur was sitting. Merlin had that goofy grin plastered across his face, and Arthur was surprised to see it stay there even as Merlin sank into the chair across from him.

“Sorry it took so long, had to finish alphabetizing the cookbooks,” Merlin said, like this made some sort of sense to Arthur. He leaned forward, letting his elbows rest on the table, and this close, Arthur could make out every facet of Merlin’s face, all thrown into high relief from the soft lighting over the table. He took in the wide lips and absurdly high cheekbones, filing them in the slim mental folder of “things about Merlin that we like.” Merlin’s ears, on the other hand, looked even more ridiculous from such a short distance, and Arthur filed them in the distinctly larger folder of “things about Merlin that are absurd.” Arthur had only known Merlin for a day, and already the folders were filling up, things like the goofy smile and golden eyes taking up pages of space as Arthur’s internal filing system struggled to place them. Merlin threw him off guard, and it simultaneously intrigued him and scared him shitless. But now, with Merlin’s gaze fixed firmly on his own, Arthur, more than anything, wanted to see those eyes turn gold again.

“So I take it you probably don’t want to talk about this then,” Merlin continued, apparently unaware of Arthur’s conflicted state.

Arthur shook his head. “That would be a no.”

“Right.” He paused a beat. “So what should we talk about then?”

Arthur knew exactly what he wanted to talk about. “You,” he said.

Merlin looked startled for a moment, eyes widening. “Me?” he choked out. “You don’t want to talk about me. I’m boring. Boring old Merlin. Let’s talk about something else, like…” Arthur could see the gears clicking and whirling in Merlin’s head, grasping around for some topic of conversation. “…muffins?”

Quickly filing that away in the “absurd” folder, Arthur shook his head again. “Tell me about you.”

“Erm…” Merlin chuckled nervously, pulling at his shirt collar a bit. “You don’t really want to know about me… do you?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“Well…. that was quite cryptic and entirely unhelpful,” Merlin said. “But fine. Me. Talking about me.” He fell silent.

Arthur waited a tic, expecting Merlin to start talking again, which he didn’t. Arthur rolled his eyes. Typical.

“What’s your name then?” Arthur asked him.

“Uh, Merlin,” Merlin said, looking at Arthur like he was slow.

“No, your real name, you ponce. You can’t really expect me to believe your parent’s named you Merlin.”

Merlin valiantly attempted the Arthur-eyebrow-raise, which ended up looking more like some sort of nervous tic. “So what if she-“ He corrected himself. “-they did?”

“You’re a rubbish liar.”

Merlin laughed. “I know. Gwen tells me all the time.” He ran his fingers through his hair in what Arthur now saw as a standard Merlin practice. “It’s Milo.”

This was filed into the “things we like” folder without hesitation. Arthur was momentarily surprised at this, but plunged on without dwelling too much. “Milo what?”

“Milo Emory,” Merlin said.

“So where does ‘Merlin’ come from then?”

Merlin raised his hands up off the table, waggling his fingers at Arthur. “Magic hands.”

It was at this moment that Gwen returned with two plates, placing one in front of Arthur and the other in front of Merlin, and Arthur was perplexed for a split second before remembering that Merlin was a regular, and also friends with Gwen, and it was no surprise that she would know his order by heart.

They thanked Gwen, and Merlin smiled happily up at her like some first grader at the zoo. She smiled back, though with considerably less crazy, and made off towards the front the restaurant again, obviously with other things to see to.

Arthur looked down at this sandwich, and it hit him that he actually was starving. Merlin was digging into his own sandwich, one that looked to be about as big as his face and which had an insane amount of toppings on it, and another mental paper fluttered into the “things we like,” folder. They ate in relative silence for a bit, too preoccupied by the food to make any attempts at conversation. Arthur’s sandwich was good, surprisingly so, and he found himself enjoying this. It felt comfortable, being here with Merlin, and he couldn’t make heads or tails of that. They’d just met, but there was a sense of ease that came with Merlin that made it feel like longer. Arthur wondered if he had that effect on everyone.

“So!” Merlin said, finishing his sandwich and clapping his hands together a few times to brush off the crumbs. “I take it you don’t have a car then.”

“That would be a no.”

“And I also take it you don’t want me to call Lance to pick us up.”

“Also a no.”

“Two options then!” Merlin held up two fingers to illustrate this, apparently in case Arthur didn’t understand the basic numbering system. “First! The bus.”

Arthur grimaced. He wasn’t keen on public transportation. Merlin, noticing his hesitation, plowed on.

“Second, we walk.”

“How far is it?” Arthur asked, still tired from his earlier ramblings about the city and not at all in the mood for another long trek.

Merlin considered this for a moment. “Well it’s a bit of a walk, but it’s a nice enough night out. It’s not uphill or anything,” he added as an afterthought.

Arthur nodded. “Walking would be fine.”

“Great!” Merlin clapped his hands together once for emphasis, before raising them up and waving them both through the air in an exaggerated beg for Gwen’s attention. Arthur shrank down into his seat, willing himself to disappear at this unbelievable display of rudeness, but Gwen seemed to be accustomed to Merlin’s particular brand of madness, and ambled over with their check.

“Enjoy your meal, boys?” She asked, neutrally placing the paper slip in the middle of the table.

“It was fabulous,” Merlin said, making a grab for the check, but Arthur beat him to it, snatching it up and pulling out his wallet.

“Yes,” Arthur said. “Thank you.”

Gwen raised her eyebrows at Merlin, who just shrugged, grinning stupidly. Arthur handed her back the check, along with thirty dollars. “Keep the change,” he said.

Gwen’s eyebrows inched up higher and her eyes darted to Merlin before she bowed, clutching the bills to her chest, and said, “Thanking you kindly, your highness. Your generosity is much appreciated.” Her serious tone was belied by the smile playing at her lips, and Arthur watched as she sashayed off to another table. He turned back to Merlin, who was still grinning.

“What she said,” Merlin commented, nodding to Arthur’s still open wallet.

Arthur quickly shut it and stuffed it back in his pocket. “Don’t worry about it.”

*~*~*

It really was a nice night out, not too hot now that the stifling humidity of Richmond summer had been replaced with the warm breeze of fall. This was Merlin’s favorite time of year. There was such richness in the world in the fall, such color, and it made him want to paint, to try to capture all that vibrancy and hold onto it before it disappeared in the dull grays of winter. Arthur was the same way. He was bright and golden and full of life, and he compelled Merlin like nothing ever had. He had felt it this morning in class, and when they picked him up, and outside the bookstore, and now, lounging on a street corner, illuminated by the soft glow of dusk. Merlin felt his fingers twitch at his side, itching for a paintbrush, needing to hold onto this moment. And at the same time, he knew they were itching to touch, to trace the line of Arthur’s jaw, to sweep across those broad shoulders, to feel the heat of another human being, something he’d been missing since he left England, left Will, all those months ago.

Arthur was just standing there, a perplexed look painted across his face, and Merlin knew he was waiting for him, waiting for him to make a move. Not that move though, never that move. He left that particular fantasy in his head, but let his lips stretch into a grin at the thought of it. Then, he started down Cary Street, Arthur falling into step beside him. 

“So where are you from, Milo?” Arthur asked, and Merlin shuddered to a halt.

“Don’t call me that,” he said quietly, not looking at Arthur.

“What?”

“Don’t call me Milo,” he said, forcing himself to continue walking. Milo was echoing around in his head, bouncing off a kind voice and soft smiles, warm hugs and childhood memories that Merlin had been trying so hard to repress.

Arthur was talking again, and Merlin forced himself to focus. “Right, sorry,” he was saying. “Won’t happen again.”

Merlin knew he was curious, wanted to ask why, probably would eventually, but not now, and Merlin was all of a sudden immensely grateful for Arthur’s polite British upbringing.

“It’s okay,” Merlin said. The voice was still there, was always there, but it was retreating back into the cobwebby corner of Merlin’s mind where it lived, waiting to catch him off guard again, to ruin another perfectly good evening. He let it go, heartbeat coming back to normal as he rounded the corner onto Boulevard, Arthur a step behind him. “And I’m from Windermere,” he finally said, having regained some control over his mental faculties.

“Windermere?” Arthur repeated, and Merlin tried to ignore the undercurrents of disgust in his tone. “As in Windermere, England?”

“No, Windermere, Indiana. I only speak with this accent to attract the ladies.”

Arthur shot him a look that clearly said, I think you’re insane.

Merlin stuck his tongue out before saying, “Don’t ask stupid questions then.”

“Do you have some sort of physical ailment that prevents you from keeping your tongue inside your mouth?”

“Eyeba sowry, thut thuz thet?” Merlin said, letting his tongue loll out of his mouth like a dog.

Arthur rolled his eyes and socked him in the shoulder, sending Merlin flying three feet to the right and into a mailbox.

“Owfuck,” Merlin blurted, which he thought was an acceptable reaction as there was a now mailbox handle puncturing his spleen. His poor, poor spleen. Then, he became suddenly aware of Arthur hovering over him, hands much to close and not close enough.

“You alright, mate?”

Merlin levered himself off the mailbox, wincing a little in the process. That was going to bruise. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”

“Hey! It’s not my fault you’re such a clumsy oaf.”

“I didn’t trip!” Merlin exclaimed. “You punched me!”

Arthur scoffed. “That was not a punch.”

Merlin was rubbing his shoulder. “Sure felt like one,” he muttered.

“Are you sure that’s not the mailbox talking?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“Just as long as it’s not to Windermere.”

“What do you have against Windermere?” Merlin asked.

“Nothing, I’ve never even been.” His eyes slid over to Merlin. “But I know this dreadfully annoying painter who used to live there.”

Merlin reached up to punch Arthur’s shoulder in revenge, but his fist hit a warm palm instead as Arthur expertly blocked his assault. Now, the contact of skin-on-skin was sending sparks down through Merlin’s arm, tingling his nerve endings. Huh, he thought, that’s new. But before he had time to analyze the sensation further, Arthur’s hand was gone, back at his side like nothing had happened, and Merlin’s fist was left hovering awkwardly in the vicinity of Arthur’s biceps.

Merlin let his hand drop slowly, fingers still clenched into a fist, arm still quivering.

“So. Windermere,” Arthur said.

“Right.” Merlin let his fingers unfold little by little, flexing them a bit, trying to identify that sensation.

Arthur turned to glace at him. “So how’d you end up here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” Merlin countered.

Silence.

Merlin sighed. “I moved to London when I was 17, to study art.”

“Where did you study?”

“Slade.”

Arthur let out a low whistle, and Merlin smiled. “So you’re good then.”

Merlin shrugged. “I’m alright.”

“Uh-huh.”

Merlin’s smile widened. “Anyway, after graduation I was all set to go to the Royal College of Art to study painting.”

“Why didn’t you?” Arthur asked, incredulous.

“My…” Merlin paused, rephrasing. “It seemed in my best interests to leave England for a little while.”

More silence from Arthur, and Merlin got the feeling that he was resonating with that last statement. Interesting. Merlin filed it away, something to be asked later then.

“So I ended up here.” He gestured around at where they stood, on the corner of Broad St. and Boulevard, taking in the rundown CVS, the gas station, and the pizza place in the corner.

Arthur surveyed the area, before raising an eyebrow in Merlin’s direction. “Kind of a step down from London, don’t you think?”

Merlin grinned. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s smaller sure, but there are some lovely bits.”

“Like what?” Arthur’s tone was disbelieving.

Merlin let his grin become a smirk before he started off down Broad Street towards his apartment. “I’ll show you sometime.”

Arthur was trailing behind him for only a minute before he caught up and was shoulder to shoulder with Merlin again. “I’d like that,” he said, without a hint of sarcasm or condescension, and Merlin took a moment to cherish it, this side of Arthur that so rarely revealed itself.

They walked in companionable silence for another block before the side of Arthur Merlin was more familiar with came back in full form with the petulant, almost-whine of “How far is this place, anyway?”

“A ways,” Merlin said, pointing down Broad Street towards where the Sauer’s Vanilla sign was lit up and sparkling. “Close to where we had class today.”

Merlin didn’t have to hear him to know Arthur was sighing, and he realized how exhausted he must be. He’d had a pretty rough day, all things considered. Merlin picked up the pace, making it less of a leisurely stroll and more of a power-walk back towards Goshen Street and home. It wasn’t until Merlin was fishing his key out of his pocket and sliding it into the lock that Arthur spoke up again.

“What did you mean, magic hands?”


	3. Chapter 3

“What did you mean, magic hands?” Arthur asked, having remembered Merlin saying that in the restaurant. But just then the door swung open, and Arthur understood.

Merlin’s apartment was tiny, but every wall, every flat surface, every piece of furniture, was covered with paintings. As Arthur walked in, he saw canvasses hung from hooks, stacked up on tables, and leaning against the wall, one atop another, with no apparent organization at play. And they were all beautiful. It wasn’t a word Arthur used often, having reserved it in his mind for St. Andrew’s in the fall, sunsets over the Thames, and Morgana. But Arthur could think of no other word to describe this. Every painting was different, and yet Arthur could see how they fit together, could see Merlin clearly reflected in each one. He had a style, something like Michelangelo meets Van Gogh, with a little bit of Andy Warhol thrown in for good measure. But Arthur could also see that little bit of him thrown in, and all of a sudden it became something so completely different and so completely Merlin. Like magic.

Arthur looked around, and he noticed there were no landscapes here, no boring still-lifes. All the paintings were of people, people of every size, shape, and color, people of every walk of life. Most were strangers to him, staring out at Arthur with soulful eyes and penetrating stares, but Arthur recognized a few. There was Lance leaning in the far corner, all deep blues and greens, looking serious as ever. And Gwen was laid out on the couch, smiling in bright reds and pinks, looking positively luminescent. And there, half falling off a kitchen chair, was Arthur. Arthur painted in browns and golds and reds, leaping out from the canvas with such focused intensity and such richness. He remembered his thoughts from that morning, his valiant attempts to avoid catching sight of himself in the artwork of the class, but now he found he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Merlin had made him look like something out of an art history textbook. Arthur was sure the painting could have sprung from the section on Classical Greece, or maybe the Renaissance. He could have been David, or Adam, or some other man of great import. But this wasn’t Arthur, couldn’t be Arthur. Cowardly, run-away Arthur, appearing like some king of ancient lands and times gone by.

Is that really how I look?

“Yes,” Merlin said.

Arthur whipped around to see Merlin standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands fisted together in knots, knuckles turning white. Arthur just stared at him, wondering if Merlin had somehow developed the power to read minds in the last three minutes.

“That’s exactly how you look.”

He was speaking so quietly that Arthur barely heard him. Shaking his head violently for a moment, Arthur shucked out the mind power theory and realized he must have asked his question out loud. He turned back to the painting, trying to ascertain whether this powerful image bore any resemblance to his own self. He cocked his head, squinted his eyes, trying to gain some sort of perspective he might be lacking, before giving up. “I really don’t look like that.”

Merlin smiled. “Yes, you really do.”

Arthur shook his head again, this time out of frustration. Merlin sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face before the grin was back, although looking a little tighter than it had five minutes ago out on the street.

“Sorry for the mess,” Merlin said, moving to shove paintings off the couch and balancing them atop the already precarious stack on the kitchen table. Arthur watched in horror, certain that they would all crash to the ground at any moment. Merlin seemed completely unconcerned. “Don’t get many visitors,” he continued, bustling around, seeming to pull pillows and blankets out of nowhere and tossing them down on the couch. “Well besides Gwen.” Merlin reconsidered that. “And models,” he added, then, “Um.” He coughed, avoiding Arthur’s steady gaze. “You probably didn’t need to know that.”

This was mad. Merlin was mad. Arthur was mad for staying here amidst all this madness. But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. He found himself wanting to study every painting, wanting to find the hints of Merlin hidden beneath the varnish. Magic hands indeed, Arthur thought, dropping his duffel near the couch and began to circle.

“Erm,” said Merlin. “What are you doing?”

Arthur was flipping through the canvasses stacked against the wall. It was like they just kept coming, leaking out of the drywall and insulation to add to the pile. “Alright my arse Merlin. These are amazing.”

“High praise, coming from a law major,” Merlin muttered.

“I majored in comparative literature, I’ll have you know,” Arthur shot back.

Merlin snorted. “Which makes you an expert on art then, does it?”

“No…” Arthur turned around. “But I know good art when I see it.”

Merlin stared, mouth hanging open just slightly. “You are the most arrogant person I have ever met.”

“I’m giving you a compliment!” Arthur shouted.

“Yeah,” Merlin said, “and bigging yourself up in the process.”

“Only because you’re a self-deprecating bastard!”

“Well at least I’m not a conceited prat!”

“No, just a humble boy from Windermere, is that right?”

“…Yes.”

Arthur deflated a little, realizing that was exactly what Merlin was.

“Look Merlin-“

Merlin held up a hand. “Don’t. Just… don’t. It’s fine.”

“But-“

“Arthur, shut up.”

Arthur’s mouth snapped shut, more out of lack of anything to say than obedience.

“Look,” Merlin said, sounding very much worn out. “I have some work to do, painting, yeah?”

Arthur nodded. Opening his mouth to ask a question.

“No, you cannot watch,” Merlin cut him off, and again the words mind power flashed through Arthur’s brain. “The couch is yours,” Merlin said, gesturing to the newly cleared off sofa, “as is the television, although I warn you, I don’t have cable."

Arthur made to speak again, intending to say something, anything, express his gratitude at Merlin taking him in, apologize for being such a royal prat, gush some more about how wonderful Merlin’s paintings really were, but all that came out was “Right then.”

“Let me know if you need anything.” Merlin pointed towards a paint-splattered door that led to what Arthur assumed was a bedroom, before waving that goofy wave again. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Arthur echoed, and watched him go, expertly dodging the clutter in his path, and Arthur spared a moment to wonder how someone so insufferably clumsy could navigate through this labyrinth of artwork so easily. He heard the door shut softly, and Arthur resigned himself to a night alone. He plopped down on the sofa, which was significantly more comfortable than he’d had been expecting, and pulled out his laptop to check his e-mails. Merlin hadn’t mentioned if he had Internet here, but after some finagling and words of encouragement, his computer managed to find a network connection.

His inbox sprang open with a cheerful bing, a small number 15 floating next to New Mail. Arthur counted two from Lance, which he deleted, three from Sol, also deleted, and ten from his father (or rather, ten from Agravaine), all of which he deleted with relish.

Task finished, Arthur let his laptop fall shut in his lap before slipping it back into its case in his duffel. He glanced at his watch. It was only a quarter to ten, but Arthur was beat. Besides, it didn’t sound like Merlin was going to be emerging any time soon. He stretched before shrugging out of his hoodie and pulling off his t-shirt, dumping them both next to his bag on the floor. He toed off his shoes, and slipped out of his jeans, adding them to the pile, before curling up beneath the blanket, toes digging into the padded armrest of Merlin’s too-small couch. Arthur sighed, shifted a little, before giving up and letting his feet go over the armrest to dangle off the edge of the sofa. He hitched the blanket up higher, settling back into his pillow.

It was at this moment that some sort of furry behemoth landed feet first on Arthur’s chest, causing him to thrash violently for a moment before realizing he was probably not in danger of being mauled. Merlin’s cat, if it really was a cat, was all whites and blacks and grays, and looked to weigh upwards of thirty pounds. Arthur knew this because it was beginning to cut off his ability to breathe. He tried to dislodge the thing, he whacked it, twisted on his side, eventually tried picking it up and physically moving it, but it had attached its claws to the blanket, determined to stay put. Finally, Arthur gave up, managing to restrain a shudder as the cat curled up on his chest once again. He flicked its tag over and read the name Freya inscribed in the little disc of metal.

Nice to meet you too, Freya, Arthur thought.

Freya bobbed up and down in Arthur’s vision, rising and dropping with each breath he took, as he stared around at the paintings, at all the faces of Merlin’s life. Before he knew it, he was asleep under the warm presence of Merlin’s cat and the steady gaze of a hundred oil eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

OCTOBER 31, 2010

Three weeks. That was all it took for Merlin to fall for Arthur.

Gwen would argue it had taken less than that, reminding Merlin of the frantic phone call that first morning, when Merlin awoke to find a half-naked Arthur sprawled out on his sofa.

Lance would say that he was being hasty, reminding Merlin to take things slow, despite three weeks of Merlin waking up to find a half-naked Arthur sprawled out on his sofa.

And Merlin? Well Merlin said screw it. He would very much like to wake up to a half-naked Arthur for the rest of his life.

It was shocking how fast they had all become friends after that first day of general awkwardness. Arthur and Lance were chums again, their argument resolved with a not-so-surprising lack of apologies from both sides (Merlin had since learned they had been friends for years, having met at St. Andrews). Gwen and Arthur hit it off right away, finding a common ground in Merlin, who would gladly be the butt of jokes forever if it meant Arthur would stick around. Arthur even seemed to be getting along with Freya, letting her sleep on his chest most days. As for Arthur and Merlin, they hadn’t changed very much since that first night. There was at least one argument a day, followed up by at least one apology (from Merlin), and one sarcastic comment (from Arthur), and they would be thick as thieves again. Merlin was at a loss to explain it, but they just seemed to understand each other, and in his opinion, understanding was a feat in itself. And if that could happen in three weeks, certainly love could as well?

Merlin had been learning more and more about Arthur over the past few weeks. He knew that he was from London, the son of a politician, and that he had come to America to shirk his duties (Arthur had told him none of this, but Lance had told Gwen, and she couldn’t keep gossip like that to herself if her life depended on it). He knew that Arthur had chosen Richmond, of all places, because Lance lived here and was the only one of Arthur’s acquaintances willing to harbor a fugitive on their futon. He also knew that eventually, probably very soon, Arthur would have to go back. And he was also constantly made aware that Arthur knew even more about him than he did about Arthur. Arthur had eventually pried out his secrets about Will, his first love, who had dumped him for a lanky musician named Cedric. Arthur found out about Merlin’s mother, who was killed in a car accident two months before he was due to start graduate school. Arthur had correctly put all this together as the reasoning behind Merlin’s decision to reject his scholarship offer to the Royal Academy in London to come here, to Virginia, far away from anything that might remind him of the past. Arthur understood that Merlin had been running away, just like him. Which brought them to this tenuous understanding they had reached, as kindred spirits in their need to flee, that bottomless desire to run and never look back. They both knew that it had to end, that they couldn’t run forever, but for now, they took pleasure in the chase, content to stay one step ahead of their pursuers, hidden away in the bohemian haven Richmond provided.

And tonight was Halloween, something Merlin and Arthur were fairly new to, all things considered. They had been invited to a party, instructions clearly stating that costumes were required. After much deliberation, someone (Merlin wasn’t going to mention names) had decided the irony was too much to pass up, and so Merlin found himself walking down Broad Street in a long velvet robe and a pointy hat, a fake white beard itching at his chin and upper lip. Next to him, Arthur loped along in plastic chain mail and a billowing red cloak, a cheap, gold painted crown resting on his head. Merlin remembered being astonished as Arthur walked out from the bathroom in his apartment, something about the outfit striking a chord in Merlin’s memory, like a glimmer of something that once was. Arthur wore it all like he was meant to, making his plastic accessories seem gilded and solid, glimmering with a veracity that only true gold and steel possessed. Arthur had given him one of those looks, the ones that said “I think you are utterly ridiculous,” and so Merlin had just grinned, readjusting his beard and socking Arthur in the shoulder. 

Now they were headed towards a house in the Fan that belonged to a friend of Gwen’s, and Merlin’s only concern was not tripping on his too-long robe and falling into oncoming traffic. A glance at Arthur confirmed he was having no trouble maneuvering his over sized cloak, and Merlin glared at him, the whole thing losing some of its ferocity as Merlin’s wizard hat slipped down into his eyes.

Merlin tried to hide his smile as Arthur raised his eyebrow in what was now an all too familiar gesture.

“Problem, Merlin?”

“I just don’t understand,” Merlin said, hiking up his cloak, “how you can walk in that thing without tripping.”

“It’s called grace, Merlin,” Arthur said, putting on the tone he reserved for such occasions as was necessary to show off his breeding. “It’s something you’re born with, and something you decidedly lack.”

Merlin snorted. “And you don’t?”

Arthur assumed his most condescending face. “I’ll have you know that I was trained in the art of grace and poise from an early age.”

“So that night you rolled off the couch and thumped your head on the kitchen table was an example of grace and poise?”

“That,” Arthur said, aiming a finger at Merlin, “was an accident.”

“That resulted in a twelve hours of hospitalization and a concussion.”

“I was asleep,” Arthur said, “It doesn’t count. At least I don’t trip over my own feet on an hourly basis.”

Merlin’s affronted scoff was punctuated with some intense flailing as said feet got tangled in the bottom of the cloak and Merlin pitched forward into the sidewalk.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Merlin commented from where his face was resting on the pavement.

“Uh-huh.”

Merlin was making to lever himself off the ground when he felt warm hands under his arms and then he was being heaved upright onto his feet again. Like every other small contact Merlin shared with Arthur, the touch sent shivers through Merlin’s spine, causing him to shudder a bit on his feet. Merlin let Arthur chalk it up to the slight chill in the air and carried on, bouncing sarcastic comments off Arthur until they got to the house, which was decorated to the nines in all manner of Halloween regalia. There were jack-o-lanterns on the steps and skeletons sitting in the porch swing. The door swung open to reveal Gwen, looking stunning in a medieval-esque gown in light purples and creams, Lance following close behind as the stoic knight in shining armor. Matching grins bloomed on their faces upon seeing Merlin and Arthur, and the night passed in a delightful, alcohol-induced haze. Merlin talked up everyone in the room, friendly as ever, making his way easily through the crowd. After properly introducing himself to every partygoer (and at some point losing track of hat and beard), Merlin bounced his way over to Arthur, who was standing awkwardly in a corner, clutching his beer like a lifeline, looking completely lost.

Merlin spared a moment of wonderment over how the image of confident Arthur striding across his living room in full King regalia had morphed into this shy, reclusive Arthur. It didn’t seem to fit with his understanding of him, but Merlin was very near drunk and very much in love with this man, and he only spared a second to take this new observation into consideration before shouting over the music, “Doest Your Majesty care for a dance?”

And there went the eyebrow again as Arthur considered Merlin’s outstretched hand.

“The correct form would be ‘doth’,” Arthur said, which Merlin took as a yes, taking Arthur’s beer from his hand and passing it off to the cowboy standing nearby.

“Watch this for him, would you?” He called over his shoulder as he grabbed hold of Arthur and pulled him steadily from the room.

“Merlin!” Arthur yelled, struggling to tear his hand from Merlin’s grip. “Cut it out!”

“It’s a party Arthur,” Merlin replied, turning around to face Arthur, but not letting go of his hand, “this is what you do at parties.”

“I don’t want to dance, Merlin.”

“Too bad!” Merlin shouted, still grinning, too high on bass beat and adrenaline to care that Arthur was looking steadily more uncomfortable by the second. “I want to.”

“So dance with someone else.” Merlin watched as Arthur glanced around, before Merlin used his free hand to force Arthur’s head back to face him.

“I want to dance with you.”

Arthur’s face contorted into something Merlin didn’t recognize, before his tense frame relaxed slightly and he turned his hand in Merlin’s grip so that their palms were clamped together. Merlin felt that familiar zing down his spinal chord, relishing in the sensation. He let his other hand fall from Arthur’s cheek to his shoulder, gripping the firm muscle there, and Arthur’s hand landed on Merlin’s hip, fitting around the bone with a natural ease that Merlin had never felt with Will. He took one step towards Arthur, closing the distance between them, and they began to dance. It only took Merlin a minute to realize that while he loved feeling Arthur’s hand sliding against his own, it was just not conducive to the sort of dancing he intended to do. So with much reluctance, he dropped Arthur’s hand and twined both arms around his neck, and he felt Arthur’s hands slide around his back, and it was all heat and motion and Arthur’s face so close to his own. And Merlin was drunk and loving every minute, tangling his fingers into the sweaty hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck, feeling Arthur’s hands grip a little tighter around him, and Merlin could almost believe it was all a happy dream, that Arthur was just as enamored with Merlin as he was with Arthur. And fantasy was mixing with reality as Merlin tilted his head to slot his lips against Arthur’s, feeling the wet slide of mouths, his body fitting perfectly against this new warmth, like magic.

And then it was gone in a flash as Merlin was shoved away violently, knocking into a coffee table and nearly tipping over backwards onto the carpet. Arthur was standing in the middle of the room, breathing heavily, face flushed, lips wet, looking so utterly ravishing in that moment that it took Merlin more than a minute to understand that Arthur was angry, incredibly so. Merlin saw Gwen moving out of the corner of his eye, but she didn’t even make it within twenty feet of Arthur before he was turning, stomping out of the room, and Merlin winced as he heard the front door slam in his wake. Gwen shot Merlin a worried glance as Lance appeared out of nowhere to help him up. Once back on his feet, he spared no time in following Arthur out the door, Gwen shouting unintelligibly behind him.

 

Merlin ran at breakneck pace back to his apartment, stopping only for a second after two blocks to tear off his cloak and stuff it into the nearest trash can. The streets seemed to stretch on forever, the worry that Arthur would already be gone playing forefront in his mind as he took every shortcut he knew about, anything to bring him home quicker.

He scrambled up the stairs, hands shaking as he fumbled with his keys. He had just managed to shove the right one into the lock when the door was yanked open from the inside and Arthur, beautiful, wonderful, still-here Arthur, appeared in the doorframe.

He stared at Merlin with a new coldness in his eyes. “Move,” he said.

Merlin processed this. “No.”

“Merlin,” Arthur growled, “move.”

Merlin tried with all the ability he possessed as a drunk man in a wizard’s costume to appear foreboding and formidable. “No,” he repeated.

“I’m not going to do this with you, Merlin.”

“Do what?!” Merlin shouted, voice rough and desperate, any semblance of control slipping away with the realization that he had probably, actually, fucked this one up beyond repair. “Dance with me? Kiss me? Fall in love with me? No I suppose you wouldn’t. That was just me then. All me, always me. Stupid, stupid Merlin. Thinking I had any chance with his royal highness Sir Arthur of Prat-land. I’m just a fucking nobody to you- jeez, to fucking everybody and now I’ve gone and fucked this up and-“

Merlin’s tirade was cut off when Arthur grabbed him by the collar and slammed their mouths together, yanking Merlin inside the apartment before shoving him back against the door, forcing it shut.

“Why don’t you ever fucking shut up?” Arthur growled against him, making Merlin’s skin crawl. He leaned forward, yearning for another taste, not able to get enough. He tasted like steel and rain and cheap beer and something else that was distinctly Arthur. Merlin wanted to trace it, to define it. He wanted to be able to paint it onto a canvas and label it “Arthur,” so he could hold onto it forever when this inevitably ended. But Arthur held him back with a firm hand against his chest.

“I can’t do this.”

“You can,” Merlin argued, tongue darting out to lick his lips, chasing the flavor of Arthur that lingered there.

Arthur groaned and pressed another kiss to Merlin’s lips, sucking that tongue into his mouth, and Merlin was overwhelmed with heat and the sensation, before it was gone, Arthur having retreated to a safer corner of the room, leaving Merlin panting against the door like a horny teenager, lips swollen and eyes dilated.

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “I can’t do this. Not again.”

Any thoughts Merlin had been having were stopped in their tracks. He paused, rolling that sentence over in his head. “…Again?”

Arthur just stared back silently, looking completely disheveled and also, Merlin noted with a gleeful glance downwards, painfully aroused.

Merlin licked his lips again before carding a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “Care to elaborate on that?” He asked with forced ease.

He could tell that Arthur very much did not want to elaborate on that. In fact, Arthur was looking very much like he had not intended to say such a thing at all, and was at a loss as to how to continue now that he had. He looked like he wanted to run, like he just wanted to be further away, but all Merlin could think about was getting closer. He needed to be closer, to feel the heat he knew was radiating off Arthur. He waited, staring, willing Arthur to look at him, not understanding what was happening, yearning for some sort of connection.

Then, Arthur’s eyes met Merlin’s, and instantly, like lightning, Merlin understood.

Because he knew those eyes, had seen them staring out of the mirror at him for more than a year. This was not new; this was not uncharted. This was again, and suddenly it dawned on Merlin that Arthur had run from more than just an unwanted political career, and that he was still running.

But we can’t run forever.

“That’s why you left.” Merlin said cautiously, an almost question.

“He did most of the leaving,” Arthur muttered, and Merlin’s suspicions were confirmed.

“What was his name?”

Arthur’s eyes slipped closed, like he was remembering. “Solomon. Sol.”

Merlin nodded, and carefully picked his way through the jungle of paintings to stand in front of Arthur, letting his hands wander up to Arthur’s face, thumbs sliding over warm cheekbones, fingers tangled in tousled hair.

Arthur opened his eyes, and Merlin met his gaze again, a heady rush coming over him, like the one he got when he was painting, the feeling of pure gold coursing through his veins, like magic.

“My name is Merlin.”

*~*~*

“My name is Merlin.”

And it was like the words held some higher power, and Arthur forgot his argument, forgot the voices in his head telling him to stop, forgot everything except for Merlin’s eyes, molten gold, locked onto his own in invitation.

He took a breath. “My name is Arthur.”

Merlin grinned that ridiculous grin. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Arthur. Now take your pants off.”

And Arthur laughed out loud, and it felt good and free and nothing at all like again. He reached out for Merlin, sliding his hands under the cotton fabric of his thermal and crushing their mouths together.

After that it was all fumbling hands and flushed skin and tangled limbs and tripping over the cat and Arthur feeling happier than he had since May. Merlin’s bed was all together too small and also elevated six feet in the air, forcing Arthur to grumble and complain as he followed Merlin up the ladder and over. They landed on the mattress with a muffled oof, and Arthur wasted no time in wrapping himself around Merlin again.

It was bliss.


	5. Chapter 5

When Arthur woke up several hours later, there were a few fingers of light filtering in from the window, illuminating the room in dull gray. Arthur realized that he had never actually been in Merlin’s bedroom before now, and he was starting to see why. This room, much like the rest of the apartment, was full of paintings, canvasses lying prostrate on every surface. But unlike the wide assortment of subjects found in the living room and kitchen, every painting here was of Arthur. Upon further inspection, almost all of them were of Arthur asleep, and unbidden, an image of Merlin, camped out at the kitchen table, surrounded by brushes and jars, studying Arthur with those golden eyes, popped into Arthur’s head. Yesterday he may have been annoyed, creeped out even, but today, on this morning, things were different, and he found himself utterly fond of everything Merlin did.

Even now, as Merlin let out a particularly loud and unattractive snore, Arthur only smiled, letting his fingers trail over Merlin’s back and shoulder and down the arm that had been draped across Arthur’s chest sometime during the night. This was complicated, he knew, and would of course require further conversation, but just for now, Arthur was content to lie through the morning with a snoring Merlin drooling on his chest.

He spent the next hour or so studying every painting he could see, taking in the colors, the brushstrokes, the texture. He still didn’t think they necessarily looked like him, there was something about them that didn’t fit, a regality that Arthur felt he didn’t posses in real life. But he couldn’t deny that they were beautiful, that Merlin had made him beautiful.

When he glanced down again, he noticed Merlin’s eyes had fluttered open and a sleepy grin was stretched across his face. Arthur smiled in return, before raising an eyebrow at Merlin. A look of confusion passed momentarily over Merlin’s face before Arthur nodded towards the nearest painting, and Merlin’s grin grew even wider.

“Why keep them secret?” Arthur asked, moving his hand up to tangle in Merlin’s hair.

Merlin leaned back into the touch. “They were never secret.”

“You never let me see them,” Arthur accused.

“You never asked,” Merlin replied.

“Nuance. A secret’s a secret.”

Merlin chuckled, his chest rumbling against Arthur’s. “Fine. They were secret.” He tilted his head up at Arthur. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t like the idea.”

“Of being painted?” Arthur asked.

Merlin nodded.

“Merlin, I’m a model.”

He felt Merlin punch him sleepily in the shoulder before slumping back against his side. “Yeah well… this was different.”

And Arthur had nothing to say to that, because it was different, in every way that mattered. These paintings were private, not meant to be displayed or graded. They represented stolen moments of peace hidden amidst the mayhem, stress-free and careless, not like the pressure and structure of class. They were freer, with more expression and less detail, more emotion and less subject. Arthur was reminded of that first night when he caught a glimpse of himself in oils on Merlin’s kitchen chair, and much like that night his eyes were constantly drawn to the paintings. Merlin would call him vain, always wanting to look at himself, but Arthur didn’t see himself in the paintings, he saw Merlin. He saw Merlin as much in the paintings as he did in the warm body draped over his, in the dark hair and golden blue eyes, in the long fingers and magic hands.

Magic hands that Arthur now knew performed all sorts of tricks outside the world of painting.

Arthur rolled himself up on to his side, leaving just enough room for Merlin to slot in next to him, face just inches from his own. Arthur reached down and found one of those hands, turning it over and running his fingers across the knuckles, then tracing the lines of the palm, swirling around paintbrush calluses and the whorls of fingertips. Merlin sighed in appreciation, letting his eyes fall shut and throwing a leg over Arthur’s to tangle their ankles together. Arthur smiled, letting his own eyes drop to Merlin’s hand, wondering where this sudden fixation had come from. When he next looked up, Merlin’s eyes were blown gold. He wasn’t smiling, just staring fixedly at Arthur like he had just remembered something important. Arthur didn’t like that look.

“Speaking of secrets…” Merlin started, an edge of seriousness to his tone but still making no move to extract his hand from Arthur’s clever fingers. Arthur waited for the questions to start, about Sol, what had happened, why he left, and so was surprised when Merlin spoke up again, asking, “your father isn’t just a politician is he?”

Arthur froze, brain frantically working to formulate an answer.

“I googled you,” Merlin continued. “It is said that Lord Pendragon is a very close friend of the Queen’s.” Those eyes were studying Arthur with a calculated intensity that he recognized from class, had seen when Merlin was trying to arrange a painting in his mind, lay out a composition, consider forms and proportions. Now they were evaluating Arthur, and it was making him squirm.

“My father is Lord Uther Pendragon, Duke of Albion,” Arthur said quietly, trying to make it sound as unimportant as possible, but his breeding getting the better of him and it coming out sounding entitled and not at all humble. “Which you obviously know, since it says so on Wikipedia.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked.”

Merlin’s eyes narrowed. “Arthur, this is an altogether different set of circumstances that some clandestine painting.”

“How so?”

“It’s important.”

“No, Merlin, it’s not.” He twined his fingers through Merlin’s.

Merlin yanked his hand out of Arthur’s and jolted upright, nearly slamming his head on the ceiling in the process. “Yes it is!” he exclaimed. “Arthur, you’re-“ He stopped. “What are you?”

“My official title is Lord Arthur Pendragon, Earl of Albion.”

Merlin blinked. “Right.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I just slept with an earl.”

Arthur couldn’t help the smile blooming on his lips. “Yes. You did.”

Merlin glanced down at Arthur, eyes wide. “I just slept with an earl.” He paused, “What the hell even is an earl?”

“It’s just a title Merlin.”

“You’re an earl.”

“Yes.”

“Earl Arthur.”

“Yes.”

“Good lord.” Merlin clapped a hand to his mouth. “I’ve defiled an Earl. I’ll be killed! I’ll be hung by my thumbs in the Tower of London!” He ran his hands frantically through his hair. “I need these thumbs, Arthur!” He was now waving his thumbs wildly through the air, nearly poking Arthur in the eye in the process. Arthur dodged before grabbing both of Merlin’s hands in his own, holding them still.

“Your thumbs are safe, Merlin,” Arthur said. “Also, you have not defiled me. I’m not some blushing virgin.”

“No,” Merlin replied, “just an earl.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Would you drop it?”

“Drop it?” Merlin said, voice jumping an octave. “How would you like it if I told you I was secretly the- the Crown Prince of Belgium?!”

“First of all,” Arthur said, “you are nothing at all like the Crown Prince of Belgium.” Merlin glared at him. “Second, my title is an honorific, and I have no official power until my father…” He took a breath. “Until my father dies or otherwise retires his position.”

“Which could be soon, from what Lance says,” Merlin said carefully.

Arthur just nodded.

“So it is important, Arthur.”

Arthur let out a strangled sigh. “Yes, but not for this, and certainly not right now.” He raised a hand to cup Merlin’s cheek. “Because this is lovely.” His thumb brushed over Merlin’s lower lip. “You’re lovely.”

Merlin face split into a smile. “You’re a right ponce.”

“You’re just figuring that out, then?” Arthur reached a hand between them to rest on Merlin’s thigh, and Merlin sucked in a shaky breath.

“Let’s just say,” Merlin said, already moving to lay over Arthur, “that I could do with further evidence.”

And then Merlin was smiling against his lips again and Arthur was lost.

*~*~*

DECEMBER 20, 2010

My dearest Arthur,

I have been informed that you’ve run away from home. How very 16 of you. Agravaine has contacted me, begging me to make you see sense, although I do so with no hope of its effectiveness. My sources tell me you’re in America, and so I can only assume you are holed up with Lance, waiting for the world to change to your liking. May mercy find him, for I know what it is like to live with you. 

I’m sure you are wondering where I am, and I’m also sure you’re aware I can’t tell you, for your sake as much as my own. But there are several things I’ve been meaning to say to you, and with Agravaine’s request came this unprecedented opportunity. 

First, get over yourself Arthur. You are no longer a child to be coddled, and you can no longer run about tricking your nursemaids or causing mischief. Nor can I. We have grown up, Arthur. You are not fooling anybody.

Second, and perhaps most importantly, be cautious, Arthur. Trust no one. I cannot go into detail, but if you knew the things that have come to pass in your absence, I believe you would reconsider relinquishing your title. Uther’s illness is grave indeed, and you must do what is expected of you. I, too, find my return to be unavoidable, and I’m certain we will cross paths soon. 

Be wary, and stay on your toes, for no one is as they appear to be. 

Godspeed, Arthur.

Morgana 

 

Right. So that was cryptic and severely unsettling. Arthur folded the letter and stuffed it back in its envelope, flipping it over to look at the return address.

St. Petersburg, Russia

Which means Morgana would probably be somewhere in the Caribbean by now.

Arthur dropped the letter onto the stack of mail on the kitchen table, dropping his head into his hands.

What did she mean, “the things that have come to pass in my absence”? Arthur thought, trying to puzzle out the riddles of Morgana’s letter. He yearned to talk to his father, to his advisors, to anyone who might be able to shed some light on the situation in London, but Morgana’s words were ringing in his head. Trust no one.

Arthur stared down into his cup of tea, wondering if maybe some sort of sign would appear in the milky swirls, some divine profession of wisdom or truth. The worst part was that Arthur was pretty sure he knew what he had to do, he just dreaded doing it. He sighed, carrying his untouched tea over to the sink and watching the dregs swirl around the drain before gripping the edge of the counter with both hands, steeling himself for the declaration he knew had to come.

“I have to go back.”

“Go back where?”

Arthur whirled around to see a sleepy eyed Merlin wandering out from the bedroom, wearing a pair of loose sweatpants (covered in paint) and some holey socks.

“Good morning,” Arthur said, ignoring the question.

“Mornin’” Merlin replied, padding his way over to wrap his arms around Arthur’s waist. “Go back where?” he asked again.

Arthur sighed, planting his hands awkwardly on Merlin’s shoulders, feeling not quite right in his own skin. “To England,” he said quietly.

He felt Merlin’s muscles stiffen beneath his fingers; hands tighten at his waist. “To England,” Merlin repeated, like sleep was still clouding his comprehension.

“Yes.”

“Why?” Merlin asked.

Arthur hesitated for a moment. “My father is ill,” he said.

“Your father’s been ill.”

“He is… worse.”

“How do you know?”

Arthur reached over to the kitchen table, plucking the letter from where he’d set it just minutes ago, and passed it silently to Merlin. He saw Merlin’s eyebrows go up as he realized who it as from. He watched as he took in the words, knowing Merlin was reading between the lines just as he had, seeing all the things that weren’t being said. When he was finished, Merlin calmly re-folded the letter, slid it back into the envelope, and dropped it into the trash bin beneath the sink.

Arthur laughed a hollow sort of laugh, but he knew Merlin wasn’t joking. He truly believed that if you could just throw it away, destroy the evidence, that it was like it never happened. Arthur leaned forward, burying his face in Merlin’s hair, breathing in the scent of shampoo layered with the ever-present smell of oil paint and turpentine, wanting to be part of that reality. He realized with a start that he would miss this, this ease and this comfort, and that more than anything, more than this newfound freedom, Arthur would miss Merlin. He made a split-second decision, one that was crazy and dangerous and would probably get him into an immense amount of trouble. But he found he couldn’t care, didn’t care about anything except for preserving this, whatever this was. He tilted his head, moving his mouth so that it was just millimeters from Merlin’s ear.

“Come with me…?” he said, the end trailing off into a question.

Arthur expected resistance, explanations, arguments to the contrary. He expected Merlin to tell him why this was crazy, why he couldn’t leave. There was school, there was work, there were all manner of reasons why Merlin couldn’t just jet off to England. He did not expect Merlin to turn his head, a ghost of a smile on his face, and whisper a soft “yes” against Arthur’s lips.


End file.
